Lemonade Mouth Puckers Up (31 page)

Could it be that Ray Beech, the biggest loudmouth I knew, wanted to mend fences but couldn’t see a way to make it happen?

Was it even possible that Ray secretly wanted to join Scott with all the other Lemonheads but was too proud?

At last the enormous day arrived. Astonishing as it seemed to our five bewildered rabble-rousers (especially to your own Sista Stella, who had tried so long and hard to get the elusive Take Charge Festival tickets without any success), Lemonade Mouth was not only going to
attend
the massive concert event, they were going to be
part
of it. And all at the personal invitation of the great Sista Slash herself. My friends, emotions rise and bubble at the mere memory. And yet it would be false to suggest that my happiness was complete. Sure, I was excited—of
course
I was, who wouldn’t be thrilled to have all their musical dreams come true? But I was also a nervous wreck, and my mind kept going back to how much I missed Rajeev. How much
more
glorious the day would have been, I kept thinking, if only he could’ve come with us.

Now, in case any of you out there are thinking that Rajeev
and I shared some unrealistic romantic delusion, that our relationship was just some blinding teenage summer crush gone sadly overboard, let me set the record straight once and for all about Rajeev and me, and how
we
saw ourselves: From the very beginning, Rajeev and I both recognized that we still had our whole lives ahead of us, and that teenage romances have a long history of fizzling out over time. We recognized this and accepted that the future—our future—was very much unwritten and still in question.

But that didn’t mean our feelings weren’t
real
.

Even though we couldn’t have foreseen what, if anything, lay ahead, we knew that we’d found something in each other that was rare and special. We both realized that we wanted the same kind of magic in our lives—not the fairy-tale-fake kind of magic where people go nuts for each other like sharks at a feeding frenzy and then move on. No. We wanted the real thing, the kind based on true friendship and respect, and in our own way, that’s what we were already building. Yes, there was a huge spark between us from the moment we first met, but somehow we knew to take things slowly, enjoying that fleeting moment for the true magic it was. I think that’s what made our time together so powerful.

So on the morning of the Take Charge Festival, there I sat, sweaty-palmed and secretly pining for my lost Rajeev, as my family and friends and I were transported from the hotel in two stretch limos on our way to what was sure to be the biggest event of Lemonade Mouth’s existence.

The festival was happening on a three-hundred-acre dairy farm in a tiny rural town called Stamford, Vermont. We were set to be the second act, squeezed in between Li’l Jedediah and the Blast Babies, and we were told to arrive
two hours early. Unfortunately, everybody else seemed to have the same idea. The ride from the hotel should have taken thirty minutes (because we were a last-minute addition to the schedule, there were no hotel rooms available for us closer to Stamford), but it took us longer because even three hours before start time, the highway was already jammed with people on their way to the show.

At least we’d lucked out with the weather. It was a beautiful, cloudless day.

Finally we arrived at the festival grounds. The traffic cop waved us through the main gates, and we all went quiet as we took in the scene: a parking lot full of bicycles, buses and cars, and then, behind it, a giant bowl-shaped field swarming with people. The stage was set up in the center, surrounded by a patchwork of blankets and tents. Many of the concertgoers seemed to have camped overnight. It would be another hour and a half before the first act began and already the crowd was bigger than anything I’d pictured.

“Whoa,” Mo said.

I glanced toward Olivia. Squeezed between Charlie and Mrs. Reznik, she had a determined look as her gaze stayed focused on her knees.

Our limo driver followed the directions of the traffic guys, weaving us slowly along a dirt path toward the back of the stage as people drifted all around us. In the line of food vendors to our far left I could see Penelope, the Wieners on Wheels van. The bright yellow wasn’t hard to pick out. Wen’s dad and Scott Pickett were already setting up to sell hot dogs. Wen had arranged this with Sista Slash, sort of a last-ditch attempt to help his father get the struggling business to catch on. There were advantages to having
connections with the concert organizer. (“If this doesn’t work, I don’t think anything will,” Wen had confided to me.) Closer to our limo, some of the people were holding up signs with slogans like:

ROCK THE BALLOT BOX!

SUPPORT HURRICANE DISASTER RELIEF!

WANT A BETTER WORLD?
THEN GET OFF YOUR BUTT AND DO SOMETHING!

Faces strained to see us through the limo’s tinted glass. We were being treated like VIPs, and I admit, I loved every second of it. It was an amazing rush.

At last we reached an enclosed area near the stage. Roadies leapt from the chaos to help unload our stuff. Sista Slash was nowhere in sight (I later found out she was with one of the concert sound teams in another part of the giant field), so we were met instead by a guy named Al Pinkerton, who was in charge of all the incoming performers. He came over right away to introduce himself. A tall redhead with a wireless headset strapped to his ear, he was super nice and even had a copy of our first CD,
Live at the Bash
. He asked us to sign it for him.

“So great to meet you guys!” he said, reaching out to shake everybody’s hands, starting with mine. “I’m a big fan—you have no idea how excited I was when Sista first told us you were going to play today.” He really did know our music too, and to prove it he sang his own quick rendition of “Back Among the Walls,” which was totally flattering.

I guess what I’m saying is that everything was going well. The morning wasn’t even over yet and already the day looked like it was going to be the crowning achievement of our lives. We’d landed the gig of the year, our music was about to be legitimized in front of a gigantic, eager audience and the air practically vibrated with hopeful excitement, a general feeling of Great Things About to Happen. Even Olivia, who we’d all been worried about, seemed to be taking the chaos with surprising calmness.

And that’s why it was such a crushing blow when it all started to crumble so quickly.

Disaster was already heading our way, preparing to slam us like an unstoppable freight train.

It started less than five minutes after the roadies unloaded all our instruments and equipment near the stage. We were just waiting for the tech crew to let us know they were ready for us. Other than the band members, nobody else needed to stick around, so our families and the rest of our entourage had started wandering away to check out everything happening out on the field.

That’s when Olivia’s cell phone rang. She looked surprised to hear it.

“I meant to switch my phone off,” she said, and she seemed to hesitate as if considering whether or not to even answer it. But when she checked the screen she saw it was her grandmother, who’d stayed at home to watch us on TV because she’d been worried about doing a lot of walking on her bad legs. I figured she was calling to wish Olivia good luck.

Wen and I had been killing time leaning together against a giant crate, so we were right there with Olivia as she answered the phone. As soon as the conversation started I could tell from her expression that this wasn’t a good-luck
call. Something was wrong. Olivia drifted into a corner, away from the sounds of people talking and the equipment guys working. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I noticed Olivia’s hand rise to her mouth. There was a lot of listening and nodding. At last she put the phone away, and when she came back she looked as pale as a phantom.

“What’s the matter?” Wen asked.

“Brenda just got a call from Sunshine Haven,” she said, “the place where my mother lives.” Olivia had told us earlier that week about her mom and how she’d come back after so long and all the stuff that was going on with her. It was mind-blowing. “It was one of the social workers there. They … um … they had to call an ambulance. My mother’s on her way to the hospital.”

That took a moment to sink in.

“Holy crap, Olivia! That’s terrible!”

She nodded. I knew she was mad at her mom about a lot of things—and who could blame her? But now her arms were crossed and she was biting her lip as she stared at the ground. It looked like there was a battle going on inside her.

At the edge of the stage a few yards away, Al Pinkerton was calling out orders to his crew while somebody from Li’l Jedediah’s backup band was tuning a twelve-string through a gigantic Marshall amp. Charlie and Mo weren’t far. They’d been with a couple of the roadies—and Charlie had been taking a video of all the activity—but the two of them must have realized something was going on, because they came closer now. We filled them in.

“So, what does this mean?” Charlie asked. “Your mom’s going to be
okay
, right?”

“I don’t honestly know. All they could tell Brenda was that earlier this morning my mother seemed short of breath.
She insisted she was fine, but then a few minutes ago they found her collapsed on the floor. The social worker thinks she’s been lying about going to her dialysis treatments.” Olivia glanced around at us. I could see she was scared. “My grandmother’s been hinting that something like this might happen. Now I guess the situation is really serious—maybe even life-threatening.”

Mo’s eyes went wide. “The social worker actually said that?”

Olivia nodded again. “She told Brenda that if the hospital can’t clear her system fast enough, there’s a chance that … well … that this could be really bad.” She was hugging her shoulders tight and her gaze dropped to the ground again. She almost looked like she was getting smaller.

Mo stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Olivia’s shoulders. Wen touched her arm. “Olivia,” he said, “whatever you need, we’re here for you. Just tell us what you want to do.”

But in Olivia’s expression I could pretty much see the answer. Her grandmother was at least three hours away from her daughter, almost certainly too far to arrive at the hospital in time to be with her during the crisis. From here in southern Vermont, though, the drive to Pittsfield would only be about an hour.

I glanced at Charlie, Wen and Mo. They seemed to be realizing the same thing I was—the same obvious truth Olivia was struggling to admit to us and maybe even to herself. In the distance the concert crowd was growing quickly. People were pouring in through the main gate and side entrances along the fence while recorded music started to play through the field speakers. Near the front of the stage a line of cameras and journalists was already beginning to buzz with
activity. I took a moment to grieve. We’d come so, so close. Painfully close. But Olivia was more important, and there was no question about what we needed to do. In the span of about three seconds, Mo, Charlie, Wen and I looked around at each other, each of us nodding one at a time.

We made our decision. Nobody even hesitated.

Wen was the one who broke the brief silence. “You need to be with her, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Olivia bit her lip. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s crazy after … well, everything, but she’s still my mother, and what if something bad happens? What if I don’t ever see her again?”

“Olivia, you don’t have to explain,” I said. “Of
course
you need to be there with her. We’re going to do everything we can to get you there.”

Her eyes welled up. “Are you sure? We’ll never make it back in time for our performance slot. We’ll lose our one big chance.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “If there’s a way to get you to Pittsfield, you’re going.”

Olivia looked like she was going to cry. There was no time to stick around, though, and Charlie, Mo and I were already sprinting toward Al Pinkerton. We needed to let the concert organizers know what was going on, and to figure out how on earth we were going to do what we’d just promised. Al was finishing up with a couple of lighting equipment guys, and we quickly explained the situation to him. He listened quietly. We hated to disappoint him—and Sista Slash and everyone else—but this was bigger than a concert.